


The Depths of Society

by BastardBin



Series: The Weight of Lies au [2]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF, The Weight Of Lies (Hermitcraft)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Lore and Worldbuilding, M/M, Rebellion, Secret Organizations, and its name is zloy, canon to the weight of lies, guards are assholes, ignorance is bliss, pixl was too chicken to go find adventure so adventure found him instead, this should be a threeshot but we'll see, twol au, twol society is racist, wanna know more about the twolverse? here's the fic for you, we just get an ignorant narrator instead, welcome to the twol fic where instead of an reliable narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BastardBin/pseuds/BastardBin
Summary: Pixl's life is a simple one. He lives in the countryside of the overworld, away from people, and goes about his days the same time and time again. The most exciting days are the ones where he gets to travel to the city, to sate that little part of him that yearns for adventure by just exploring streets he's never been on before, until inevitably going back to his normal life again, to return to his responsibilities. Life is fine; it's a peaceful existence, and he can't complain.Little does he know just how lucky he is, and just how much he doesn't see what's right under his nose, until he gets swept right into the middle of whatever it is that lurks below the streets.(Canon side piece to The Weight of Lies fic)
Relationships: Pixloy, Pixlriffs/ZloyXP
Series: The Weight of Lies au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1994089
Comments: 32
Kudos: 88





	The Depths of Society

**Author's Note:**

> i stayed up until 4am the past two nights in a row to get this finished in two days after rewriting the beginning three times because i hated the first few tries and i am very tired lmao
> 
> anyway yes this is canon to the same universe as The Weight of Lies, but the question is when this occurs and what it has to do with that story hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?

Pixl can only wonder what he did to get himself into this situation.

And normally when people say that, they do have some idea of the sequence of events that led them to where they ended up, but Pixl genuinely has no idea. He’s here, now, for some reason; sitting on the rickety wooden bench of the local jailhouse, sequestered away from the watchful guard glaring at him from a seat on the other side of the bars like he’s some kind of criminal, with his poor groceries put away into some kind of evidence room.

With most people, this would be the point at which they would stew on their actions, think about what they did wrong, or maybe even try to coerce the guard into letting them free. Or at least, that’s what Pixl has always assumed, considering he’s never been in this position before or even known anyone that has. No, instead he’s just sitting here in complete and utter confusion, feeling vaguely guilty for causing trouble even though he knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, and going over the events of his morning again and again to try and understand what could have possibly landed him here.

All he wanted was to go to the bakery, he didn’t ask for this.

  
  


* * *

His day started with the dawn. The journey from his home to the city is a long one, especially by foot, and Pixl was geared up and ready to go barely before the sun itself had gotten its own morning started. One could say he was up before all of his neighbors, but knowing how farmers are, that would be a lie. Just like them, though, he doesn’t mind early mornings; as he walks the rarely used, somewhat overgrown dirt road leading to the main cobbled one somewhere ahead, he watches the sunrise. It paints the sky in all sorts of colors, dark blues fading into a bright orange glow with streaks of yellow cut through it, shining brightly enough he has to squint at it to see it. His favorite part is the pale purple, the splotches of lilac color that grace the sky for a bare few minutes before fading into the normal blue of the day.

By the time he reaches the main road, the sun has left its place sitting on the horizon, rising gradually through the sky. There’s the slightest chill leftover from the night, but it warms away with each step, the air less cool on his skin with each passing moment. He takes the time to take in the landscape around him, looking around and committing the sights to memory even though they’re long since already there. For the most part, the landscape around here is farmland, as far as the eye can see in most directions, crops and pastures alike stretched across the vast area.

Even now, as he follows the road, he passes by the pasture with the cows that one of his neighbors has. They watch him as he goes, somewhere between curious and bored, and he croons at them with an outstretched hand. Instead of getting a curious one close enough to pet, though, it just gets him a distant snort before they go back to their grass. He tries not to feel rejected.

Past the field, he’s met with long stretches of crops, swaying gently in the wind. The tall fronds seem to flow in waves the further out he looks, just like water, and it never fails to be a fascinating sight. For not the first time, he considers what it would be like if one could actually swim in the crops like a liquid the wind makes them look like, but realistically he thinks it would be pokey. Reaching out and letting the tops brush his hand as he walks, though, he entertains the thought nonetheless.

For a long time, his footsteps and the sound of the wind through the swaying plants are the only sounds to be heard. He counts the cobbles under his feet, dirty and worn this far out, entertaining himself further in the silence with seeing how many cobbles he can pass with one step. It’s the approaching sound of hooves and the creaking of wooden wheels that remind him he may be making himself look like quite the fool, and he rights himself, walking properly as he listens to the sound of someone approaching from behind grow ever closer. For a while, he doesn’t look back, a sense of awkwardness keeping him righted forward, but it’s once the approaching horse drawn cart gets close enough to slowly pass by him that he gets to glance at its driver.

It’s an old man, skin tanned and wrinkled from a lifetime of working the fields. There’s a permanent scowl marred into his expression, and he looks up from the road to return Pixl’s stare for just a moment. He grunts a wordless greeting that may sound vaguely like a good morning, and Pixl hesitantly waves back with a friendly smile, which earns him a snort as the man looks away again. Assuming he just isn’t one for words, he lets the man pull ahead without trying to start a conversation, thinking about how that was pretty friendly for a grizzled old farmer actually.

The road gets a bit more uneven around here. It’s far enough out that it’s not fixed often, but close enough to be worn down more than it is further away, and some of the cobbles are jutting out at odd angles. As he watches, Pixl sees the way the cart jostles from them, wheels catching and bumping over the uneven stones. In the back of the cart, bags and crates alike shift about, toppling over with distinct thuds. Barely seeming to notice, the farmer continues on without looking back.

After only a few minutes of the shipment being jostled around, Pixl isn’t surprised in the least to see something finally fall. Leaning off the side and being pulled more by gravity with each bump in the road, a sack of something is worked loose from its place in the cart and finally falls to the ground with a flat sound. The farmer continues on without notice, not looking back, and Pixl can only guess he didn’t hear it.

Pausing when he reaches it, the bag laying unceremoniously in the road in his path, it’s a bit of a sad sight to see some of its contents having escaped and rolled away. Potatoes are scattered on the ground, lost and left behind, and Pixl doesn’t think about it before he’s taking the time to gather them up. It’s difficult to stuff them back in the overfilled bag, but he’s careful to see if he’s gotten all of them before hefting the bag onto his shoulder.

He’s fallen far behind by now, the wagon continuing on its way ahead. Shouting has never really been his strong suit, and a wiggling sense of anxiety keeps him from wanting to raise his voice and not be heard anyway, leaving him with no choice but to follow at a faster pace than he’d been walking at before. Now, the sun rising higher in the sky feels far too warm, and even though the horse is meandering at a slow pace of its own, Pixl feels warm through to his ears by the time he catches up enough to call out.

“Hey, sir!” He calls, voice weaker than it should be from his jog. The man does hear him after all, glancing back with a raised eyebrow, and yanking on the reins when he spots Pixl. With the cart coming to a stop, he’s able to fully catch up, bracing a hand on the wood for a moment to catch his breath.

“Whatcha got there, son?” Pixl hears over his own breaths, and holds up a hand to signal he needs a moment. He's granted that, the farmer patiently waiting for this stranger to find his words again, something he's grateful from someone who's prior greeting sounded nearly impatient.

“You dropped something.” Pixl tells him simply after a moment, gesturing toward the sack on his shoulder. As the farmer's gaze travels to it, he hefts it up and back into the cart as best he can, relieved to be free of its weight. Eyes sparkling with curious interest, the farmer looks back at him from where it landed.

“You didn't have to return it. I wouldn't have known any better if you didn't.” He points out, voice thoughtful. And Pixl knew that, sure; the man hadn't noticed at all he'd dropped something, he never would have known if he'd just taken it and turned back toward home. Pixl shakes his head at the idea.

“That wouldn't have felt right. It's yours, whether you would have noticed or not.”

His answer is simple, direct. Pixl doesn't want to gain anything from anyone else's misfortune, regardless of being caught or not. He's not here for praise, either, and with a nod to the farmer, begins to step around the cart to set back off toward the city again. There's a kind of scrutiny he feels like he's under, and he doesn't want to overstay his welcome, doesn't want to make the farmer think he's expecting some kind of compensation just for being a little helpful to no loss of his own.

“Now, hold up.” The farmer stops him, though. Glancing back, Pixl sees the old man shuffle to the side in his seat, jerking his head toward the space beside him. “You're headin' to the city, right? Hop in, I'll give you a ride.”

Pixl blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Go on, hurry up. We're burnin' daylight already.”

His words are sharp and firm, and Pixl scrambles to follow the barked command, clambering up into the seat beside him with no further hesitation. With a flick of the reins, they're off again, the farmer falling right back into the same silence from before with the feeling of not being a very chatty person emanating off of him. Part of Pixl wants to strike up conversation, get to know him, and make his company worthwhile, but the other part of him isn't so sure this man wouldn't just be annoyed by it. Which is fine, he thinks, settling back against the seat to watch the countryside go by.

The trip is much faster from this angle, the countryside seeming to pass by in a blur compared to walking. With the sun much higher than it was when he left, the sky is a bright blue, a vivid backdrop to clusters of fluffy clouds drifting lazily overhead. In the distance, he can see the moment the city walls come into sight, massive structures of grey stone that merely look like a tiny figure from here. It's small enough to fit between Pixl's fingers when he holds them up, amused at the way he can press them together and make the city disappear entirely as if he's squished it.

Beside him, the farmer snorts.

“You're just like my daughter when she was a little'un. She used to sit up here and tell me about how the city was small enough, her doll could stomp on all the buildings and turn them to rubble.” He muses, remembering with a fond smile. The sight of it on his otherwise grumpy old face warms Pixl's heart, seeing he's got a soft spot in there somewhere. Under his breath, mostly to himself, the farmer adds a tiny, “Destructive little bugger. Should've seen the barn incident comin', come to think of it.”

He has no idea what the barn incident was, and it's not his place to ask, but the tone of the farmer's hindsight mention of it makes him want to laugh. He gives a polite chuckle instead, continuing to look around as the scenery changes, watching as the long fields of crops change types and the small sections of grass on either side of the road turn to hedges of spiky bushes. Doubling both as fences and as a crop in and of themselves, Pixl isn't sure why all of the farmers don't use them, his thoughts wandering to the smell of sweetberries in the midwinter when most other fresh crops are distant memories.

Slowly, the city walls grow closer, gradually enough Pixl doesn't realize how far back he's inclining his head to see the top until he feels like he's looking straight up at the sky. He's been here time and time again, sure, but even from the raised height of the cart, the walls feel dauntingly tall. There are figures walking back and forth across the top, just the barest of shapes against the bright sun and sky behind them, and Pixl watches them curiously until he can't anymore. As the old man drives right up to the wide, opened gate, they pass beneath the heavy shade of the wall and the guards above disappear from view.

“Halt,” He hears, and for a moment, doesn't realize it's directed at them. It's only once the reins are pulled and they stop right under the drawn gate and another stationed guard steps toward them that he realizes they were the ones being spoken to. “State your business within the city.”

The farmer jabs a thumb over his shoulder, at the produce he's transporting. “Here to sell the harvest, same as always.”

Peering around and past him, the guard waves a hand, signalling two other guards to step over. They approach quickly, coming up on either side and beginning to carefully look through the back of the cart, inspecting the spaces between the crates and bags like they're expecting to find something else hidden underneath. Sighing like this is a regular occurrence with transporting goods, the farmer leans back in his seat, crossing his arms and waiting.

The first guard, meanwhile, turns his attention to Pixl.

“And you?”

“Oh, I'm just here to run some errands.” He offers as helpfully as possible, matching the guard's suspicious scowl with a friendly smile. Eyes framed by purple markings narrow at him, scrutinizing up and down his frame and seeming to stick at the top of his head for a moment before finally relaxing.

“What sorts of errands?”

His voice is somewhat friendlier this time, some of the aggression drained away and replaced by a more neutral curiosity. Pixl knows it's still about sizing him up, of identifying his intentions and making sure it's nothing nefarious for the safety of everyone, and he doesn't mind answering. Even if not for that reason, he wouldn't mind anyway, really. He has nothing to hide.

Inclining his head, Pixl maps his intended route, trying to decide what's relevant and whether he needs to tell this guard everything on his shopping list or not. He settles for not, assuming this man doesn't want to hear every little thing he's here for and probably has better things to do. “I'm just here to do some shopping in the market, really. I don't live here in town, so, occasional trips for necessities you know?”

The angel nods back at him, accepting the answer and not prodding further. At the same time, the other guards step away from the cart and return to their prior posts with an unknown gesture to the one speaking to Pixl, and he steps aside. “You're good to go, enjoy your stay.” He says, even friendlier now that his colleagues have cleared them to pass. Pixl even catches a faint almost smile on the angel's face as the horse begins to tug them forward again before he turns away, the look vanishing from sight.

Beside him, the old farmer grumbles. “You'd think they'd remember me by now. Sixty years of passing through here and they still always think I've got some ruffian hiding in my damn potatoes every time.”

The best Pixl can offer him is a helpless shrug, letting his attention drift away to the town around them as they enter. Immediately, they're upon the market they both came for, stalls and people alike milling about and looking at the wares presented before them. Even from here on the wagon as the farmer steers it off to the side for somewhere to unload it, Pixl can see some of the things available, everything from all the different fruits grown around this area to crafts unique to the vendors. He can already see some of the things he's here for, mentally jotting down a new path to take to hit all of those stalls on his way through in a moment.

First, though, they pull to a stop near the stone walls, and the farmer begins to climb out and go about his business. Quick to follow him, Pixl scrambles down and joins him at the back, hesitating on whether he should go on his way and leave the man be or help him for his kindness in bringing him here in the first place.

“Do you need help?” Pixl offers, finally, a hand raised to the bags and crates the old man is already hefting up and out like they weigh nothing. It earns him a surprised bark of laughter, like that offer is the most ludicrous thing he could have said.

“I may be old, but I'm not frail yet.” He waves him off, casually tossing another bag onto his shoulder in a way Pixl is half convinced might be just to show off and further prove his point. “Go on, I'm fine.”

The words are short and to the point, telling Pixl clear as day that he's done with the company, but his tone betrays a note of fondness nonetheless. Parting ways leaves Pixl with a warm feeling, smiling softly to himself with the thought that he's made a friend of a grumpy old farmer on this day, somehow.

The market is, for the most part, the same as it always is all of the other times he's been here. People bustling about this way and that, Pixl carefully parting his way through them and trying not to bump into anyone, all going about their daily or weekly shopping or even just hanging around for the sake of socializing. Though less of a common sight than the humans like himself, angels aren't a rare sight either. Interspersed just the same as everyone else, sets of brilliantly white wings catching the sunlight above every now and then as one appears somewhere in the crowd.

He finds himself near the center at some point, half of his mental shopping list filled out while he tries to put into route what he needs to look for next, going over in his head what he's still missing. Just like he noticed before, the center of the market holds a standing group of people, chattering amongst themselves about what he can only guess is the weekly gossip. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches one gesturing vaguely toward him, nudging her friend in the ribs with her elbow with a teasing smirk, only to get a responding jab back more harshly for her efforts. He's not sure what that's about, but he gives them a friendly greeting wave all the same, chuckling to himself when they both turn bright red and look away.

With a direction mapped out, Pixl continues on. He passes by vendors with armor and weapons glinting in the sunlight, right by the gate and in clear eyesight of adventuring travelers should they need them, but he isn't one of them. For just a moment, though, he can't deny his attention is enraptured by the shiny surfaces. The pristine craftsmanship of both shining iron and the even more brilliant diamond defenses laid for all eyes to see are a sight to behold, and for a waveringly long second, Pixl finds his mind wandering to what a life needing such things would be like.

To venture out into the wilderness, comfortably weighted and sharpened blade in hand, to find what's out there. Traveling to new cities, seeing different architectures, different cultures; meeting more people like that farmer today, a temporary companionship of people with a common location in mind as they travel together for the sake of not traveling alone. Pixl can't help but reach out a hand, feeling the smooth surface of the displayed chestplate, heart yearning not for the first time to experience the life it alludes to.

But he pulls himself away, just like he always has before. The call of adventure and travel may ring loudly to him, but those kinds of lives are for other people, not him. He has things to do here, and back home, already; and it's that reminder in mind that makes him turn, heading deeper into the market to get the rest of his things.

Realistically, as he fills a bag thankfully given to him by one of the vendors with all of his groceries, he doesn't actually need to go any deeper into the city. Set up like it is exactly for people like him, the market here at the gates has everything one living outside of the city could need, making their trips shorter and easier while giving the sellers themselves more customers than if they were spread out. It's a good system, he'll give it that, and once he pays for his last purchase he could well and fully be back on the road and on the way home again.

Maybe he hasn't brushed off the call of that armor as much as he thought he did, though, considering the feeling that he just isn't ready to go back just yet. The countryside is nice, sure. It's peaceful and quiet, long days after chores spent lazing in the grass without a care as the clouds pass overhead, but it isn't what he wants. A kind of curiosity tugs at him, drawing his eyes again and again back toward cobbled roads leading deeper between tall and beautifully constructed buildings, and he wants to see what else is there beyond just the stalls at the gate.

He's done it before, granted. A day spent wandering the city, here and there, trying to commit its streets to memory and see what other shops and places he can find in the short time he has before he really does have to return home. This just seems to be one of those kinds of days, as it turns out, and Pixl adjusts his grip on his purchases for the day before letting his feet wander in the direction they'd like, curious to see where they'll bring him.

He stares around at the buildings more than he does the road ahead of him, the sound of the market fading behind to a low murmur and then to nothing as he goes. This time, it seems, he's ended up heading in the direction of something more residential, cute little homes with stone brick foundations lining the streets on either side. Some have tiny gardens, planter boxes with flowers below their windows, each with their own tiny hint of unique charm giving away the different people that live in them. He passes one that has its owners outside, a tired looking woman in a chair while she pulls a needle through fabric again and again, crafting something he can't be sure the make of. Only a few steps from her, children he guesses are her own wrestle and chase each other around, bounding out into the street and nearly knocking him right over in the process, with only hastened apologies escaping them as they go. Chuckling at their antics, Pixl glances at the mother, catching an embarrassed and apologetic look on her face when he does and motioning to her in a way he hopes is clear he's not bothered. The kids come bounding back, and he hurries on his way before he can take a second chance at being toppled over.

The streets become the slightest bit more familiar when he reaches another intersection, and he takes the road he hasn't been onto before. In the back of his mind, he realizes he's meandering vaguely in the direction of a bakery he's been to once or twice before, somewhere on the other side of the city. It's a cozy place, tucked into the corner on a back wall away from the gates, with vines trailing up the side of the building and even hanging down over some of the windows, and he'd never split off his route and gone into a building faster than he did when he'd spotted it. Even now, just the thought of it makes him want to go back, reminded of the friendly girl at the counter that did her hair up in a way he'd never seen before, her oddly sharp eyes never quite meeting his own but her voice as warm as the sweetberry pastries she'd sold him.

Most of the city has a similar feeling about it, like most things follow the same creative guidelines, or maybe everyone likes to do a lot of the same things as each other. But that place was different; and he doesn't need to think about it any more to decide that's the place he wants to visit again on this trip, before he inevitably has to head back home again.

He's on what he can only assume are the back alley sort of roads, only half cobbled and only a house away from being against the city wall. This is the side of town where the wall butts up against a mountain, guarded well by nature itself and leaving the wall bare of the patrolling guards he'd witnessed over the gate. There's also more shade here, the mountain outside casting heavy shadows along with the buildings around, and he rubs away the chill creeping up his arms. It's quiet here.

Ahead, the road curves, turning to the right and back toward the more lively parts of the city and, he's guessing, the bakery. This is coming from around the back direction of it, he thinks, but it doesn't feel like he's very far. It's just a rising excitement for being nearby and his mind replaying the memory of the place again, but he swears he can smell the distinct scent of the wood stoves and fresh baked goods already. Curious and excited, he hurries toward the bend in the road, speeding up his pace to see if it's just around the corner like he thinks it is.

He's stopped by a shout before he makes it to the corner.

“You there! What are you running for?” Comes an unknown voice, sharp and aggressive. It has the exact same tone as the guard that stopped him and the farmer at the gate earlier, and he wrenches to a stop at the sound of it, spinning to find the source. He's met with the sight of a guard strolling coolly toward him, a human one this time, if the lack of purple on his cheeks means anything. There's a scowl on his face, a hand on the pommel at his hip, and Pixl feels a bit like a child caught running in the halls.

“Oh, I was heading for the bakery.” Pixl supplies as helpfully as possible, sheepishly smiling at the guard. He can feel an edge of embarrassment creeping up his neck at the situation at hand, not intending to spook any guards by running around like he has somewhere to be when he really just wants a pastry.

The guard doesn't share his awkward smile, though. His eyes only narrow into a glare, piercing into Pixl like he's been caught in a lie.

“What bakery?”

Blinking, Pixl turns, holding his hand toward the bend ahead. “The one just this direction, with the..” He trails off, looking back at the guard's face. Judging by the expression there, the unamused look of someone that knows better than him, he  _ may _ have misjudged where the place was.

“There's no bakery around here.”

If possible, the guard's face seems to harden more, setting firm into a scowl. His hand falls from the pommel to the grip of his sword, pulling it out of its sheath just enough for iron to glint in the sunlight, and Pixl is suddenly very aware of the situation he may have accidentally put himself in. Oh dear.

“Your story doesn't hold up, and here you are running like a bandit toward the slums. You're coming with me.”

Pixl blanches. Oh,  _ dear _ .

* * *

Okay, granted, it was probably the running like a suspicious character on a deserted back alley with an armful of groceries that actually got him locked up in here, but Pixl genuinely did nothing wrong. The guard on the other side of the bars clearly doesn't believe that, though; he keeps glancing at Pixl with a suspicious glare, giving him some kind of silent treatment as if that will make him break and tell the truth, even though he's been telling the truth this entire time.

Part of him wants to speak up, to try and argue his case again, but he has a feeling he won't be listened to if he did. He has no choice but to sit back against the cold stone wall, crossing his arms over his chest. It's far chillier in here than it was out in the sun, and he feels like he's been sitting on this rickety old bench for long enough that his backside is starting to go numb, but the choice to leave isn't exactly one he can make. Unfortunately for him, too, he can't hope for anyone to come get him, either. Living with only one other person a few hours travel outside of the city, and not having any kind of contacts  _ within _ the city, well... his only hopes are to either wait for some other guard to take pity on him, or to be rescued once his mother decides to come figure out why he never came home.

And that option isn't exactly a fast one. On a quick trip, he wouldn't be home until evening, and glancing outside shows him it's still plenty bright past the barred windows. On slower trips, he may even decide to hole up in an inn for the night, giving him time to fulfill all of his errands and then some, and that's not even to mention how long it would take for actual concerns to be raised instead of patience waiting for him to return.

Yeah, he's not going anywhere for awhile, is he?

Sighing, Pixl shuffles in place, trying to get comfortable against the cold wall and to shift his weight off of his numbing muscles, but neither help, only leading to more fidgeting. After a moment, the guard that dragged him here glances over, barking at him to settle down, before going back to paperwork or something. Miffed, Pixl squints at the back of his head spitefully.

There's not much to entertain himself with in here. And by not much, he means nothing at all. Anything he was carrying was taken from him when he was brought in here, and he's not even sure where any of it was put; granted, he was only carrying groceries for the most part, anyway. Somewhere in another cell he can hear the rhythmic tap of dripping water, slower than a passing second and making time feel even more drawn out than it already does as he listens to it. Idly, he taps his foot to the sound of it, bored out of his mind.

He wanted to wander the city and buy pastries, not get stuck sitting in a cell with nothing to do. If he wanted nothing to do, he would have gone home. Then at least he'd have the landscape to watch, or more neighboring livestock to be ignored by, instead of being stuck in tense silence with someone that clearly doesn't like him and the sound of a drip that he very much wishes would cease.

Granted, he's not as bothered as he could be, content to just see how most days go. But the part that annoys him the most is the fact he didn't even do anything, and there wasn't even any real kind of misunderstanding to land him in here accidentally. Making a face at no one, Pixl asks himself when it was made a law not to run in the streets, because he sure never got the memo there.

The silence and the sound of the drip are broken by the door being flung open, and against his logical awareness that it won't be anyone for him, Pixl can't help but perk up with a hopeful feeling. His eyes snap to the door, hoping that by some miracle his mother has developed an archangelic sense of knowing he's gotten himself into trouble, but it isn't her. The feeling of disappointment wars with the interest that spikes at the sight of the newcomer, strangely enough; it's a man he's never seen before, with an air about him that catches his attention in an instant.

He can't place what it is, but there's something...  _ different _ about him. Something wilder than the energy of other people in the city, of farmers content with their boring lives. Piercingly yellow eyes skim the jail, glancing over each empty cell before meeting Pixl's own stare, and he feels like the floor sways under him at the way those eyes seem to pick him apart piece by piece. For that moment, they're all he can see, transfixed by such a bright color he's never seen on another person before.

Then they break away, turning to the guard questioning the man's presence, and Pixl remembers he still needs to do that funny thing called breathing. He's free to take in the sight of the rest of him now, too; dressed in nice clothes that don't particularly fit the style of this city, as well as a pair of distinct goggles sitting right at the end of his dark hair, this man looks like he walked out of another world entirely. Faintly, in the back of his mind, that rogue line of thinking that always calls for adventure now yells something about how it wants to experience whatever world this man came from.

“What do you want?” The guard is asking, just as aggressive as ever, when Pixl tunes in to the conversation happening in front of him. Face falling into an unimpressed look, the newcomer stares down his nose at the guard, giving off a vibe of someone righteously indignant at being spoken to in such a way.

_ “Excuse _ me? I'm here to clean up after you.” He claims, a tone of offense thick on his tongue. As the guard's glare darkens, offended in and of himself, he continues before the guard can butt in and snap back. “Another one, huh? Didn't the captain warn you not to arrest people unless they give you a  _ good _ reason to?”

“That's none of your business! And he  _ did!” _ The guard yells back, slamming a hand on his desk. The newcomer doesn't flinch, blinking with that same unimpressed look at him.

“That's not what I heard.” He informs him, and those bright eyes glance back to Pixl for a moment, raking over his form like he's looking for something. Pixl shivers, and he isn't sure why. The man looks back to the guard, voice lowering. “And I don't see any horns. You can't just go around arresting innocent humans for no real reason, you know that.”

“You're not my superior.” The guard snaps, presumably out of any other responses. Sighing, the unknown man raises a hand to his own hair, glancing away as the feeling of tension drains from him. It's replaced by something sincere and personal, feeling real.

“Listen, if you want to go talk to the captain and hear it from him yourself, you can. But don't say I didn't warn you, alright?” He offers, voice genuine, and the guard stands with a huff.

“I will! Don't you go anywhere.”

The last part is directed at Pixl, who, frankly, forgot he was here, far more invested in whatever's happening between these other two.

Walking around his desk, the guard glares once more at the newcomer, earning him a put upon sigh from this unknown man, as if knowing full well the verbal lashing this guard is going to get for not taking his words at face value. Then he passes right by him, nearly bumping into the man on the way out, and the door closes with a slam, the guard's footsteps echoing down and out of earshot.

Once they can't be heard anymore, the man turns those bright eyes back on him again, and Pixl realizes all at once that they're alone now. Quickly, he steps closer, light on his feet and soundless as he dashes to the door of Pixl's cell. “We need to get out of here, now.” He says, voice hurried, and the door pops open under his hands.

As it swings open, Pixl sees the keys dangling from the keyhole. The same ring of keys that, moments ago, were somewhere on that guard's person and decidedly  _ not _ in this man's hands. Startled, he meets this mysterious person's almost otherworldly eyes again, staring up into them from his seat on the bench with a mixture of uncertainty and disbelief.

“You can't just-- I can't just leave. Doesn't that count as breaking out of jail?” He asks, and the man blinks back at him, staring with a dumbstruck look. Then he speaks slowly, that expression not leaving his face.

“Yes. Because that's what this is. I'm breaking you out of jail.”

“But that actually  _ is _ breaking the law--” Pixl starts, still unsure about moving from his spot, but then there's a sound from outside and the man jolts forward to grab his hand.

“I'm sorry, shut up, we can talk later but we need to go right now.” He says in a rush, his grip firm but gentle as he yanks Pixl to his feet and practically drags him from the cell. It takes a moment to overcome the rushing feeling of something fluttery at the contact, but when he does, Pixl realizes with a start that this man is actually shorter than him. It doesn't stop him from dragging the confused human out of the jail and down the halls, speeding down corridors with his head flitting this way and that like a prey animal searching for danger.

They don't run into anyone, though, and soon the man drags him to a door that looks relatively unused. It doesn't budge when mystery man pulls on it, and Pixl can  _ see _ the way it spikes his hurried air of desperate escape, forced to reformulate a new way to get out. Before they can double back and incidentally get caught, though, Pixl reaches out and tries himself to pull the door open, and the man joins him without hesitation.

Together, it heaves free of its too tight frame, and Pixl is back to being dragged too quickly by a warm hand on his own. He finds himself blinking off the glare of the midday sun as he's dragged outside, but even then they don't stop, forced to keep running far from the jail.

“Uh, don't mind me, but where are we going?” Pixl asks, finally. There are plenty of questions he has, but that one seems the most important at the moment. Well, maybe aside from 'why did you break me out of jail' but he doesn't think he'll get an answer to that while they're still running.

“Away. They're gonna be looking for you for a while after this, as soon as that guard tells his captain and they figure out what I just did.” Mystery man explains, glancing back for just a moment with a grave expression that seems to be trying to convey to Pixl just how serious this situation they're in is. Pixl is fully aware of that; which is why he's still uncertain about why breaking him out of jail and running from the guards was a good idea in the first place. He wants to ask just that, but again, he's pretty sure the middle of the street running like-- well, like escaped criminals, isn't the best place to do so.

The thought makes his skin crawl. Right, he's going to be a criminal now, isn't he? When he woke up this morning, that was  _ not _ the direction he thought his day would take, and now that it has, he's not particularly sure how to feel about it. Realistically there's nothing he can do to change it now, so he'll just have to see it through to see where this course of events leads him, but he'd be lying if he tried to say he wasn't at least a little bit extremely terrified at the thought of being a wanted criminal.

He's a simple person with a simple life, he doesn't know how to avoid getting in deeper trouble than he's already in, and that's a scary thought. And, really, he doesn't know this person pulling him through the streets, sharp eyes darting about for anyone that could spot them and give chase. He doesn't even know his name, or why he'd gotten involved at all, and for all Pixl knows he could be completely untrustworthy. But at the same time, there's an earnestness in his actions, in the way his hand holds Pixl's with such genuine concern, and Pixl finds himself perfectly content to see where this leads.

Absently, he thinks, he might have accidentally been slapped in the face by that adventure he's always wanted. Woops.

Legs and lungs burning, the grip between their hands sweaty, Pixl is glad for when his as yet unnamed companion seems to find wherever he was leading them. An old, seemingly abandoned house looms before them, the foundation crumbling in places and the windows boarded up, giving off the feeling of a place local children would dare each other to stand on the porch the longest. Glancing back and forth around them for any witnesses and finding none, the man pulls him along the side of the house and into the back garden, hidden behind a mostly intact tall fence and filled with overgrown plants and grass that grab at their feet.

He leads him to a well, and lets go of his hand to fish not in his pockets but underneath his layered shirt, pulling from within the folds of fabric yet another key like magic. This one, Pixl guesses, must be his own instead of one filched from the guard earlier. It fits into the grate over the well, allowing him to unlock it and pull it free, opening the stone structure to pitch darkness below.

“You first. I know the way down so I can jump, but I can lower you in first so you don't break an ankle.” The man says, looking up at him with those eyes, and somehow Pixl's mind goes back to that saying of his mother's about jumping off cliffs if friends do. Turns out, it's not a cliff, but a mysterious well, and not friends, but a man with pretty eyes. He has no idea what's down there but he doesn't really want to argue when that look of hurried concern is pinned on him like that.

A hand is held out for him to take, yet again, and Pixl grabs it before he can question it. Gently, he's pulled slowly over into the ring of stone, his incidental companion giving him ample time to get his footing and step inside. Even for Pixl, it takes him a moment to gather the trust to let himself be suspended by nothing but the other's grip below a drop of who knows how far, but he does, breath catching in his throat as he feels the weight of his body hang in dead space. But the hands on his are steady and unyielding, holding him carefully in a way that makes him feel secure.

“Okay, I'll lower you down as far as I can, and you let go when you're ready. It's not a very far drop, just a few feet, but be ready for it.” Comes the voice, reassuring in tone and echoing around him in the stone tunnel. Glancing up, Pixl feels like all he can see are this man's eyes, seeming to glow in the darkness of this space.

And his mind, of course, decides this is the most opportune moment for a very important question.

“What's your name?” He asks, amazed at how breathless he sounds. He's becoming a right damsel in distress at this rate, he thinks, but with the way the face above him splits into a soft smile, that's also fine with him.

“My name is Zloy.”

With a name to the face, something warm and reassuring in both voice and expression, Pixl feels safe enough to let go. With a deep breath he does, braced carefully for a landing at any point that he can't really judge, but he hits the ground after just a split second with only a momentary sway of threatening to lose his balance.

He finds himself in a dark underground tunnel, not a source of light to be found and showing him nothing beyond the small amount of light filtering in through the well, but it doesn't feel very big. Above, the light flickers with shadows and he carefully steps aside to give Zloy space to drop down with him. He doesn't right away, though, and when Pixl carefully peers up, he sees Zloy holding himself up with an arm through the grate as he fastens and locks it back in place above himself.

It's a lot more impressive than he feels like it has any right to be.

Only once the click of the grate locking echoes in the tunnel does Zloy drop down, landing as gracefully as a cat hopping down from a roof for the hundredth time. He turns a bright smile Pixl's way, lit only by the small rays of filtered sunlight from above, and the hurried rush finally seems to dissipate from his demeanor.

“We're safe now. No one will find us here.” He reassures, seeming fully at home in this tunnel. Come to think of it, Pixl should probably start questioning the presence of a hidden secret tunnel beneath a locked well behind an abandoned house in a quiet corner of the city that  _ apparently _ the guards don't know about. He should probably ask about that. As if on cue, Zloy adds, “You can ask questions now.”

“I have,” He looks around, squinting into the darkness. “A lot of questions.”

It earns him a laugh, a warm sound that echoes around them. Once more, Zloy reaches for his hand in a way that's become familiar in a very short span of time, taking hold gently and beginning to guide him through the unknown tunnels to somewhere he can't begin to guess. “Well, ask away. We have some time until we get anywhere.”

“Where are we going?  _ Why _ are we going?”

Zloy makes a noise in the darkness, a clicking sound like he's thinking. “Well, actually, I'll let that first one answer itself when we get there. And we're going because the guards will dogpile you if they see you.”

Raising his free hand in a pointed gesture, Pixl points out, “Because you broke me out of jail.”

“Because I broke you out of jail.” Zloy echoes, agreeing.

“...Why?”

Glancing back, Zloy gives him a look, like the answer is very obvious. “They arrested you for no reason, I saw what happened. Usually that only happens to us, and we take care of our own, but... Well, you looked like you could use some help.”

“Wait, who is  _ us?” _

A sly, mysterious smile graces Zloy's face when he looks back again. “You'll see.”

Zloy, Pixl is learning, isn't very good at the answers game. But it instills a feeling of excited curiosity in Pixl as he lets himself be led along, through straight and winding tunnels alike, all without lights but occasionally with more entrances above with light bleeding in from the outside. He has to wonder just how far these tunnels go, and who put them here; but he's going to take a guess and assume whoever  _ us _ is are the people behind it.

He's not sure why he's as okay with all of this as he is, but considering this is the most exciting thing to happen in his life  _ ever _ , he's fully ready to explore deeper and see what it is Zloy has to show him. It's the same as the feeling that pulls him to see more of the city, to commit its sights and buildings to memory in his head, to find the little quiet corners most people don't seem to know about. But this time, it's something  _ very few _ people seem to know about at all, hidden beneath the city like a long buried secret far bigger than himself, and he feels decidedly not alone with Zloy holding his hand.

“We're almost there.” Zloy murmurs, voice low as it echoes around them. Pixl doesn't know if he's whispering for a reason, or just for effect, but at this point he'd be willing to believe either. “No more questions?”

“There's enough questions the asking machine broke.” Pixl quips back, and again, Zloy's laughter fills the tunnel around them.

“Alright, my turn then. What's  _ your _ name?” When he looks back, that smile is back again, bright and curious.

“It's Pixl.” He answers back, and Zloy immediately murmurs the name into the darkness, his mouth forming over the syllables and adjusting to the sound of it.

“Mmm, I like it. It fits you, somehow.” Zloy's voice dips into a deadpan tone as he adds, “... Even though I barely know you, but, ehh, details.”

This time it's Pixl's turn to chuckle back at him. Only a moment later, though, Zloy pulls him through to what can only be the end of the tunnel, and any further noises die in his throat at the sight that opens up before them.

Fully underground, with tunnels branching off in all directions all around the walls, the cave opens up into a wide cavern ahead of them. Standing on a clearly manmade structure of wooden pathing to reach the tunnel they just came out of, the paths lead all the way around the room, bridging across the open space together and stairs dipping down to the area below. From the ceiling hang unique glass lanterns, filling the whole room in surprisingly bright, warm light, which illuminates all of the activity going on throughout.

Just like the market earlier, this place is bustling with activity. People walking and running this way and that, some carrying crates and bags, some empty handed and running in other directions, some shouting orders. Below, the floor of the cavern looks like a storage house, crates and supplies of all kinds stacked high in the huge space.

And then, once he's taken in the sight of all of that, two more things register in his mind at once. At the far end of the cavern, just barely visible in a smaller offshoot room, is the mythical purple swirling of a Nether portal, something Pixl has only ever seen in books. And the other is the presence of horns on over half of the people here, twisting bony features adorning the heads of so many of the people here just as casually as the wings adorning the angels above this place. Small sets and larger sets alike, and every single one of them looks perfectly content to be here, going about their work like anyone else.

When he turns, Zloy is watching him very closely, his expression something between pride and hesitance, waiting for a reaction. And Pixl can't blame him; if this place is what it looks like it is, he'd be worried about bringing new people here, too. Looking around at it all, he has far more questions than he does answers, but one answer finally comes to him after the long walk waiting for it.

“Welcome to the underground, Pixl.”


End file.
